Come Find Me
by Laylz
Summary: Adopted by the Cullens at 5, Bella's humanness sometimes got in the way. Things changed and relationships evolved. Police call it a runaway, the Cullens call it kidnap. Whatever it is, it's a nightmare trying to find a girl that doesn't know whether she wants to be found. OCC


**Disclaimer: Twilight is not mine.**

* * *

 **Haze**

 **BPOV**

Some nights, it feels like a dream.

The blonde angel sitting with me in the muddy puddle, holding my hand, and asking me why I was crying. Her skin was cold, but she was warm, and her body was hard, but she was soft.

She told me that she liked the braid in my hair, and that it was pretty and asked did my Mommy braid my hair for me. I didn't have a mommy. She said that I was a very brave girl, and was my arm hurting me because it was a little bit blue. I didn't want to answer that.

She was really nice to me.

She asked me if I wanted to go and fix my arm, and I told her I liked sitting in this puddle. She started to tell me that I really did need to fix my arm before it got worse, and I told her I really didn't want to leave the puddle or the bushes at the back of the garden.

She picked me up, and I started to shout at her, but she took me into the car and I started crying then. I was breaking lots of rules - talking to a girl I didn't know, going out of the garden, going out of the garden with a girl I didn't know. I was going to be in so much trouble. She told me I was going to be okay.

She carried me and then she drove me and then she sat with me while the doctor fixed up my baddies. But she never let go of my hand.

She was really nice to me.

I really miss her.

 **X~X~X~X**

* * *

 **X~X~X~X**

Flicking through my wardrobe, I pick out a sort of cropped sweater – it's baggy and grey – and some faded high-waist black jeans. My shoes are black and a little scruffy. I grab an olive green bomber jacket and stuff my arms through the sleeves.

I spritz myself with perfume; grab a pack of gum from the cupboards; sling my black schoolbag over my shoulder and head for the door, following Victoria out to the overly ostentatious car – a matte black BMW I8.

The music is blaring obnoxiously as she tears from the driveway. We live in a renovated cottage that is lost in the woods. Currently, we're in Minnesota, just for the winter as there was a sketchy altercation in North Dakota, and though we managed to divert attention, we were best to move away.

Both Laurent and James are away hunting until Thursday. It's a three-day break I'm in dire need of. I can breathe lighter, by just a fraction.

I have two French braids in my hair today. They remind me of the muddy puddle and the fences at the back of my garden and the blonde girl that bought me a Barbie hairbrush while I was getting my arm fixed at the hospital.

Quicker than we should, we arrive at the car lot of the nearest high school. Students scatter and Vic rolls into her unofficial parking spot. I step out of the car first, keeping my head down the best I can. Wearing a smirk as arrogant as her designer labels, Vic struts off to her group of admirers; her fiery red hair is curled loosely. People don't really talk much to me. Partly due to the fact I don't really go out of my way to seem approachable. Mostly because the first boy that tried to chat with me mysteriously ended the day with a black eye.

I head over to the science block, because I have homeroom in one of the labs. Rumours that I'm antisocial, 'special' and a whole bunch of other shit still circulate even though I'm old news now. I've been here almost two months – since late September and it's now nearing – or in the book of overexcited high school girls it is – Christmas break break and my name is only dragged into the conversation when nobody fancies talking about the latest shitty Christmas movie or tinsel and gingerbread.

I fidget restlessly on my way to class, and it quietens just a bit as I make my way in to the back where I sit, in the left corner, the seat beside me reserved for James whenever he's around.

I tend to feel really nauseous whenever I sit in this class. Today is no exception.

A boy called Luke smiles at me as he takes his seat, and I smile – just the tiniest bit – in acknowledgement. It's awkward, when he tries to talk to me.

"James not in today?" he asks, taking his seat in the row in front of me. I pay a lot of attention to my surroundings, and aside from his random bouts of intense sex hair, he's never made any lasting impression on me.

"No," I say, but leaving it at that makes me feel rude. I'm out of practice at the art of conversation. "He and Laurent are a bit sick."

"Oh. Well, uh, I'm sorry. Tell them to get well soon," he says awkwardly. I smile, but it's crooked and probably comes off as more of a grimace. .

"Thank-you, I'll let them know," I murmur, because I don't really know what else I'm supposed to say. And I know I won't let them know at all.

Lucky for me, our lazy ass homeroom teacher called Mr Jones halts most conversation when he stumbles into the room, dropping a stack of his books. The boy in the front row that grates on my nerves – his name is Jeremy – gets up to help him gather his stuff.

"Kiss-ass," Luke mutters under his breathe.

My ribs are throbbing even though I know Victoria slipped pain meds into my coffee, and I put ice on them earlier. I reach for my bag, pop two pain killers into my palm and tip them back with some water.

By lunchtime, the new alternative to talking about the latest shitty Christmas movie or tinsel and gingerbread will be that not only am I an estranged, antisocial, silent psychopath, but I'm also a total stoner.

My school day follows a similar pattern of sitting silently in the back of class, beside an empty seat, and watching people that don't even realise I'm watching them.

 **X~X~X~X**

* * *

 **X~X~X~X**

"I need to go shopping," Victoria announces.

"Okay," I mutter. "Where do you want to go?"

We're back in the car again, driving back to the cottage this time.

"We're doing an overnight trip. You can shack up at some random hotel."

It's weird. Because I think, if this were under other circumstances, staying at a random hotel would sound like my golden ticket for freedom. But it's not. Because the last time I tried to run was the worst, most painful experience I've had.

I don't think I've given up on myself. I just think I've given up on this situation getting any better. I've given up on human strength, I think that's all.

Sometimes, I give up on everything and those are some of the worst nights. I just sit, eating dinner on the grass out the back, and there a pressure in my chest that won't let up, and there are tears in my eyes I can't blink away and a lump in my throat that won't go away and thoughts running through my head that won't shut up. Those are horrible nights.

"We can go tomorrow," she says. "I'm going out tonight."

I don't ask where. I assume it's to the football game, where I'm sure her friends will be.

For a moment, a sliver of relief hugs me. Home alone is a pleasure I rarely get to have. It means watching my favourite movies from when I was a little girl with the Barbie brush. And it means that if I cry, or if I get upset or quiet, I won't get in trouble for it.

And it means that I can fall apart without being beat back together.

It's the closest thing to bliss that I know.

"I'll be back by around one-ish."

She doesn't have to tell me not to try anything, or to go anywhere, or do anything stupid. Those are all lessons I was taught a good while ago.

"Okay."

"You can make yourself dinner."

"Okay," I say.

I'm not a very hungry person, oddly enough. Something about being where I really hate to be has a way of turning my appetite to dust.

She parks up, gets out and heads upstairs, at vampire speed of course.

She's already changed, with her curls revived just a little bit, as I'm sluggishly pulling my jacket from my arms and hanging it up.

"You know that I'll know!" she shouts on her way out.

I change out of my clothes, and into some sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt that I think belongs to Laurent but has winded up in my bedroom – the bedroom that I share with James. I hate this room. I hate it very much.

I grab a dressing gown, and stuff my feet into some ratty slippers, and head downstairs. I make myself a cup of tea, and settle up on the leather armchair, using Laurent's laptop to watch Beauty and the Beast. Unconsciously, I hum away with the songs, and tighten my grip around my mug whenever a scene brings a painful pang with it.

It reminds me of honey-coloured eyes, and a cosy pink blanket and hot chocolate and bedtime in a pretty lilac room. It reminds me of things that I remember so vividly, but faintly.

I don't remember starting to cry, but suddenly I'm bawling, and I feel neither worse nor better. My back and my ribs ache from being curled up, but it's not as bad as I've known it to be.

I don't really know where to go from here.

Early in September, I turned seventeen. The Volturi stoke a deal, when I was just a little girl with the Barbie brush and the broken arm, with the Cullen clan that I'd be turned by the time I'm eighteen. I'm vaguely aware that James wants me to be his eighteen-year-old girlfriend forever, but there are no concrete plans. I don't think I can wait out ten more months of this. I don't think I can take another day, but I know I'll outdo myself. I'll survive tomorrow.

And then I'll come back and sit here and wonder why I even bothered.

 **X~X~X~X**

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 **A/N: Hi readers. :) I'm aware that this is short, and that it's pretty vague and not the juiciest of starters, but I'm keeping the best till just a little bit later.**

 **Warning: The start of this story will be reasonably fast-paced, for plot reasons, and from then on, I'll just see what seems to go down best with you guys. :) Anyway, that's pretty much all I have to say.**

 **Another Warning: This will include MATURE ADULT THEMES that may be TRIGGERING. Do not read if you giggle at the sex-ed pages in a biology book.**

 **Disclaimer: Twilight is not mine.**

 **Thanks. Leave me your thoughts. :)**

 **Niamhzoe**

 **Xo**


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